Code Name: Tantrum
by QuinnLark
Summary: Heroin Chic Sequel - The Badass Chic Series - I was trained to kill. I'm a danger by profession. And now, I have to make sure I protect myself above all else. I'm watching, waiting, and she better not open her goddamn mouth. He wasn't part of the plan, but hot damn, I may have to reassess. Know when to kiss; know when to kill. Read with caution.
1. Rawr Rawr, Motherfucker

Rawr Rawr, Motherfucker

Rosalie

I stood under the steaming hot shower, washing the hair I hadn't cleaned in weeks; washing off the look of death and drugs. It was all I needed to make this perfect.

Bella did her part, I did mine, and it was over.

Royce won't touch me again.

I loved that prick. Loved him so much it hurt. Physically. I could've taken it if it was emotional. I spent ten years in the Central Intelligence Agency, and I knew how to handle the words people said; I could handle their fists and anger and rage. But when the man I loved and adored first raised his fist to me, I froze.

I'd been home from Afghanistan for twelve hours. Home from war and water-boarding the fucking Taliban, and my fiancé raped me. Raped. Me. I could've killed him. I could've taken him down then and there, but the shock to my system was enough to immobilize me.

I spent the next two years investigating, discovering, and plotting. I became the part I needed to play. Revenge is a plate best served cold.

But there was nothing cold about his hot blood on the floor.

There was nothing cold about Jake Black's life leaving his body. Bella shouldn't have touched him after his body fell to the floor. She got blood all over herself, and made my job a hell of a lot harder. Nothing cold about burning thousands of dollars worth of clothes because the stupid bitch had to check her handy work.

She was easy enough. A tortured soul in need of escape.

And now she's doing a fucking Katie Couric interview. Like ten years is enough time to wait. I understand she wants to be free of the memories of him, but. What the fuck. What the royal fuck is she thinking. If my name comes into this, she's toast.

xxxxxxxxxx

A/N: Because there's no way we can leave Heroin Chic alone.

Let's have another view.

Welcome to Rosalie, Badass Extraordinaire.


	2. Do Chicks Kick Ass?

Do Chicks Kick Ass?

Major Emmett McCarty, US Navy SEALs

She has the most beautiful body I've ever seen. Holy Saint Patty and baby Jesus. I think I'm in love. This woman looks like she'd be the type to worry about breaking a nail, but nope. She's fucking beating the shit out of Uley.

Our team is home from Libya, and some agency has asked our commander to let this chick work with us for a while. Rehab, they said. Rehab my ass. She's doesn't need rehab. She needs a fucking Xanax. If she doesn't have some anxiety and anger problems then I'm the Queen of Sheba. King. Sorry. King of Sheba. Is that a thing?

I don't have a fucking clue because this girl is the shit.

By the time they're done in the ring, she's pouring sweat. And it's so damn hot—her sports bra sticks to her skin like it's pasted on with honey—and I think I need a cold shower.

I consider myself a pretty smooth guy. You know, really, I'm pretty badass. Fuck, I'm a goddamn SEAL; have been for six years. But I'm nothing compared to this woman. Her blue eyes meet mine when she wipes sweaty blonde hair from her face, and I feel like I've been shot. Shot with a fucking arrow from Cupid.

She owns the kiss of death. I can feel it. And she's going to be the death of me.

xxxxxxxxxx

A/N:

We met Emmett _very_ briefly in Heroin Chic, but here he is. I've never written a story focusing on R&amp;Em. This is going to be fun!

And not to worry, Edward and Bella will be around.

Don't forget their cabin up in Washington. ;)

Enjoy!


	3. Nice Girls Finish Last, Motherfucker

This story really is a sequel/spinoff that goes hand-in-hand with Heroin Chic. Definitely meant to be read after HC.

Enjoy!

xxxxxxxxxxx

Nice Girls Finish Last, Motherfucker

I was a really nice girl, once upon a time. But once upon a time is bullshit. There's no such thing as a fairytale ending in this world.

At nineteen, I was recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency straight from my first year in the Naval Academy. They saw something in me—an anger and rage—they could use when they watched me in the ring in Annapolis. I was always out for blood. It drove me.

Teaching me to speak Russian and Italian wasn't too difficult. I'm a quick study. I already spoke Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek from the years I grew up in Turkey when my father was the American Ambassador … before he went and got himself blown up by a car bomb.

I was an obvious choice for interrogating Taliban insurgents in Afghanistan. I didn't fear their bullshit, and I had approximately zero qualms to give about _enhanced_ interrogation methods. I water-boarded the shit out of those motherfuckers. Not a fuck given.

I can track anybody, anytime like a dog going after a bitch in heat. I've got this. I am a power unto myself.

This is why the first crack of Royce's fist against my ribs shocked my system. Not just because he did it, but because I felt powerless for the first time in my life. Powerless. That's the worst feeling in the world.

When I found out about Jacob Motherfucking Black and the fact that he was fucking my fiancé when I couldn't, all I saw was red. He seduced the man I loved and turned him into a goddamn evil bastard. Royce never hit me, never touched me, until Jacob showed him he could. The rhyme and reason don't exist.

And when my handler saw the bruises and the dark circles under my eyes, the sickness in me as I starved myself in anger, he took me out of the field. Do you know what it's like to take an agent out of the field? It's like murdering their soul.

I lived and breathed for the field.

If destroying my soul was the result of what he did to me, murder was the penance.

They say a white lie never hurt anyone, but they're stupid motherfuckers. My white lie—that I was helpless—was built to hurt someone. Two someones. Jacob Black and Royce King. He only had to beat on me once to make me plan his demise. Once is more than enough.

I watched Bella Black for months. She had a predictable routine, the first mistake people make. She took her kids to piano, soccer, then baby classes, and came home. Boring stay-at-home mom shit. But then she started to mix it up. She started volunteering with soldiers, and she really surprised—impressed—me when she met a guy.

I didn't think she'd have it in her, this innocent little housewife, to fuck a guy outside of marriage, but I love when women do something good for themselves. It wasn't that simple though. He wasn't interested. I had to tap her fucking phone and install spyware on her computer to figure the shit out.

Turned out it was juicier than I expected: he was her baby-daddy. The more I saw and read and heard, the more I knew I could use her to help with what I had in mind.

Befriending her was easy. Despite having a shithole husband, she was a pretty trusting person. And, believe it or not, I was actually starting to like my puppet. I even found myself wanting to help her, not just use her.

Yes, I could've taken out Royce and made him disappear and no one would've had a clue what happened, but there was a bigger fish to fry. Jacob Black had to go away, and I didn't stop until it was done.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

A/N:

Cocky Bitch.

This is going to give you (read: shaz308) a lot of the underbelly of Heroin Chic. There was a lot of mystery in it, and here is more answers.

Remember, nothing was as it seems. So here's the somethings missing.

3

Q


	4. Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

E.M.

She stopped training with us durning the day, but at night I see her on the field. Push-ups, sprints, laps, building muscles over muscles on her perfect body. She runs the mile fast. Like four minutes and seventeen seconds fast. I know because I time her each night to see if she loses form or if her time slips up. But nope. Four minutes and seventeen seconds. Always.

I haven't met her, and I'm not sure I should. The guys say she keeps to herself and we should stay out of her way - NSA or FBI or something like that, the rumors whisper. Like I ever listen to the guys except when we're on a mission.

I'm a SEAL. I know stealth and silence and how to be neither seen nor heard, so I let her walk thirty feet in front of me. I'm not stalking, I swear, I'm just ... curious. Curious because there's more to her and this rehab story than they're letting on, and sure, it's none of my goddamn business, but when has that stopped me?

My feet trip on a rock - who the hell put a rock on the dirt path? - and I stumble for a moment but catch myself on my hands. I'm a pretty quiet tripper for a big guy.

And then I'm on my stomach in the dirt, one of her knees is pressing on my balls and her other foot holds my head against the gravel. She's a motherfucking ironman.

"Why are you following me?" She demands. Her voice is smooth like honey, and probably tastes as sweet.

I grunt, but I'm not saying anything. Her knee in my ball sac would probably make me sound like a little girl if I tried.

"Steer clear and mind your own goddamn business, Squid."

And she's gone faster than she appeared.

xxxxxxxxxx

A/N:

WOOHOO! Off to a biting start!

Thank you for the love!


	5. Don't Wanna Hear You, Motherfucker

Don't Want to Hear Your Voice, Motherfucker

May 1, 2011

Some serious shit happens when you get shot in the back and shoulder at the same time. Add a knife blade off the ribs to the mix, and you'll pretty much wish you were dead.

But I wasn't. I was carried out of Pakistan that December night with my body limp and bloody on the back of Quill. He's been my partner for three years, ever since I got back to the field, and I couldn't ask for better. I code-named him Quill because he's a goddamn poet at heart. He calls me Tantrum; he says I'm a crazy bitch ... in the best possible way.

He takes care of me, I take care of him, and that's that. That's also why he carried me fifteen miles on his back in the dead of night after we ran into the insurgent mother load. Me getting shot and stabbed was worth the intel we gathered, because there was no way in hell those fuckers were just hanging around in the mountains.

Geronimo was in motherfucking Pakistan.

And today I know for sure, because the Commander in Chief is announcing the death of bin Ladin right this moment on national television. And I'm sitting in the mess hall, eating a plate of mush and almonds, but mostly staring at the television in awe. Fuck yes, we got the bastard. But the Squids are whooping like they did it themselves.

"SEAL Team Six executed the covert mission..." the newscaster says.

Oh. Well, whatever. They got there because I fucking got shot to find out where he was hiding.

"We got the fucker," I hear from beside me. Apparently, a knee to the groin isn't enough to give this one a clue.

Emmett Riley McCarty of Nashville, Tennessee: born April 3, 1977, age thirty-four, brown eyes, brown hair, six feet, five inches, two hundred twenty-three pounds of pure muscle, and turned down a full-ride scholarship to Yale to join the Marines. Four combat tours, one bullet to the darrière, and a top performer in BUD/S. I read his entire file following our little ... incident in after my workout the other night.

"So it'd seem," I respond. He may be a smart son of a bitch, but he's an idiot if he thinks he's getting in my pants. I'm a woman into myself, and ever since Royce, I refuse to be used that way. I don't care how many times I hear that it's not the woman's fault. He broke something in me that I am not getting back.

"How about a beer to celebrate?" he asks, grinning like a doofus with huge fucking dimples. Jesus. He looks like a kid, not a guy who could kill with his bare hands.

I'm blunt, I always am. "Not interested," I say - lie. I'm a little teeny-tiny bit interested, but he doesn't need to know, because it won't make a difference.

"You can't hideout forever," he counters, and my eyes snap to his. What. The. Fuck?

When I get back to my room, I go straight for the copies I made of his file. What does he mean "hideout" and why the fuck did he say it. Is there a connection? Is someone watching, and how the hell did I miss it if there is?

And there, in black and white, is a name I can't forget. Major McCarty took a bullet saving the life of one Edward Cullen.

Well, shit.

xxxxxxxx

A/N:

Flying home to LAlalnd from Denver.

Enjoy the reading while I'm up in the sky!

xoxoxo


	6. Of all the Gin Joints in all the World…

Of All the Gin Joints in All the World…

E.M.

She's gone within the month—in and out like the wind. I don't know and don't really care what she's hiding from, but she isn't going to be able to hide forever. Life and karma and philosophical shit like that.

The final consensus is that she's definitely something Black Ops. CIA, maybe. She's got the moves for it, and she's kind of a legend around here. All the guys have a theory and gossip about it like a bunch of school girls. Pussies.

I know she didn't touch any of them, though I also know they all wish she had. The woman is a ball of fire—hot, hot, hot. And I wish I had more time to watch her burn, but she's gone.

We're heading back to the Persian Gulf this week. God-fucking-dammit. If I never see a desert again, it will be too soon. But this is the life I've chosen. And I'm really fucking good at it, so I stay. I took the pin to the chest, shed my blood for my country, and I bleed stars and stripes.

Forty-eight hours leave before our mission isn't much, but I take the opportunity to drive from our station in California, up the coast to visit my godson. I want to see the little man because the times I do see him are far too rare.

Edward meets me outside, where he's cleaning his rifle, and smiles one of those _you-don't-really-know-what-I'm-thinking _smiles. The shithead is a hard read. No tells. Except when he sees Bella. His wife makes him light up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. And she's currently walking down the front porch steps with Masen, who's waving like I'm Santa Claus.

I love it up here in their woodland escape. It's peaceful and serene, and totally wonderful.

Masen and I run around like banshees. This kid is perfectly perfect. I'm never ever having my own—hell, I'm married to the Navy—so he's as close as I'll get. I'm okay with this. And when it's bedtime, I read the little guy a story about dinosaurs and tuck him in with a kiss on the forehead.

Edward and I head into town for a beer, and he's telling me all about the love of his life and how happy he is that things went down the way they did because at least he got his Bella. A lot of fucked up shit happened with her ex. Hell, he was murdered!

But Edward and Bella are the kind of happy that makes Snow White and Prince fucking Charming look like assholes. I want to feel that way, but it won't happen. Not a chance. No girl needs to be in this life. It's a fucking mess.

Except one girl.

And speaking of the goddamn devil … there she is … in Forks—a spot on the map that doesn't exist as a freaking vacation spot. She pretending she isn't watching me, but I can see her eyes flicking back to the bartender and the way her throat moves as she swallows her beer. A gulp of guilt.

She's fucking following me.

xxxxxxx

A/N: I love Emmett, and this is fucking fun to write. Just wait for what's ahead.

That's all.

Q


	7. Disappearing is My Specialty, Motherfuck

Disappearing is My Specialty, Motherfucker

Emmett isn't an easy guy to follow, even for me—trained in the arts of tracking and killing and getting what the fuck I want. But dammit if the boy doesn't know how to ride a Harley. If things were different, and shit hadn't gone down with Royce—fuck, if I'd never known the bastard to begin with—Emmett McCarty and I would make a pretty fine pair. He with his bike; me with mine. His muscles and mine. His brain and mine. Pretty damn epic, I tell you.

But things aren't different.

And now I'm made.

When he sees me across the bar, I know it's time to go. It doesn't matter if I really want to finish my Blue Moon, or eat the goddamn burger I ordered. I got what I needed; he led me right where I wanted him to.

I slip off the barstool and weave my way through cowboys and grungers and all the other types in this gaggle to get the hell out of Dodge. Who the fuck plays Weezer in a biker bar, anyway. Weirdos.

I'm at my bike and about to slip my helmet on when I hear his voice.

"Fancy seeing you in the fuck-middle of nowhere."

"Did your mother ever tell you you have a filthy mouth, Major?" I sidestep his question. I know it won't work, but it does buy me a moment to pull my helmet down over my blonde hair.

"Every goddamn day of her life." He almost smiles. Almost. "Now what the hell? Are you following me or something?" he asks. He's curious and annoyed and getting turned on. I can tell by the way his breath catches and the throbbing pulse point in his neck. This is what I do. Amongst other things.

"I'm actually on a nice ocean-side drive up to Canada," I lie. I lie well. "Fishing. Salmon."

"So this is pure coincidence?"

Well, I thought I lied well. He obviously doesn't believe me. The salmon part was a bit much.

"Yep. Apparently so." This giant of a man unhinges me. Goddammit. He shrugs—shrugs me off like I'm a fly on his shoulder—and starts to walk away. Oh, fuck no. "Or maybe not. How about a nightcap, Major?" Shit. What am I doing? _Code red! Code red!_ I did not mean for that to come out of my mouth, and I instantly want to face-palm my stupid forehead when he turns back with a slow grin.

"I wish I could, darlin'," he drawls like the southern boy he is. "But I'm here with my buddy, and visiting my godson. No can do. Maybe when I get home in a few months?" Ah, shit. But maybe it's better that he does thinks I'm interested in him.

Reassessing scenarios as they present themselves is a crucial part of my line of work, and suddenly it's become pretty clear. The answer has sort of fallen out of the sky in the form of a sexy man-beast. The closer I am to him, the closer I am to _them_, and the easier it is to keep my eye on _her_.

"It's a date, Major," I call to him and let the bike roar to life.

"What do I call you, sweetcheeks? Commander, General … _Agent_?" he leads. "You never told me your name."

Shit. Not giving him my real name. No way. No how. "Tantrum," I finally say.

"What the fuck kind of name is that?"

"The motherfucking best kind," I reply and leave him in a cloud of dusk and kicked up gravel.

He's going on a mission, I'm heading to GitMo to interrogate a few of my prisoners, and then I'm coming right back here to keep an eye on Bella Cullen. She didn't go off the grid as well as she thought. I'm the master of disappearing, not her.

xxxxxxxxx

A/N:

There's some humor in their story, where there was a hell of a lot of anger and sadness in Heroin Chic. The shit storm is coming, but I'm having a hell of a time, how about you?

PS. I actually do like Weezer, contrary to my characters' opinions.

xoxo

Q


	8. Learning Bliss Chic

Learning Bliss Chic

Bella

"Eddie..." I whimper, my hands full of his thick hair - hair which has finally grown out to the length I remember after the years of buzzcuts in the Corps. It even has a curl to it now, a thick, heavy wave that brushes against my thighs while his mouth does wicked, wicked things to my body. I'm warm and aching and burning, but the brush and slide and slickness of his tongue ignites a shiver of goosebumps, shooting from my core and straight up to the base of my neck.

My toes curl and feel like ice and fire, and I know I'm close. He knows I'm close. Hell, he knows my body and the tune it sings better than I know myself.

This is what love can be, and he's shown me over these past years.

It's my husband's lips worshiping where he finds his pleasure; it's Eddies head between my thighs while he grinds against the bed because he's dead set on getting me there first even if he's burning up for it; it's the cry of relief that exits my throat as I come on his tongue and the equally relieved groan from him when he can finally lift up and press fully into me.

It's the way he holds me after spilling his passion into my body, and the way he kisses my nose and slips away to bring me a glass of orange juice after our early morning lovemaking.

It's the way he loves Jacob's children as much as his own two kids. It's the way we are a family, and the way he's created so much love from so much hurt and from so little.

There are moments I don't think about what I've done, sometimes even days will pass before something reminds me, but it always comes back - the ghosts. Edward knows my mind and presses me into our pillows or the grasses and wildflowers in our field and tries to blind me to all but himself.

I love him all the more for this. I love him passionately.

And I want it to last forever.

I hope we get the chance.

xxxxxxxx

A/N: I was missing Bella, and we needed a nice love scene from out HEROIN CHIC stars. They're so in love.


	9. GitMo, Motherfucker

GitMo, Motherfucker

Guantánamo Bay ain't what it was. I used to be able to waterboard the hell out of these shitheads, and get the answers I wanted. Motto of my life: Waterboard, get answers. Okay, maybe it wasn't my motto, per say, and beyond the ethical and constitutional questions involved in the enhanced interrogation method, it was a rather effective way of making people talk. I'm fond of it, really.

The interrogations are successful only getting us some information on Egypt, but beyond that, it was pretty damn boring. I didn't even get to pull any fingernails off this time 'round.

My job isn't glamorous. I'm no James Bond, though I do take my martinis shaken. It's a bit simpler than all that and in many ways a thousand times more complicated. Loyalty lies not to a president or a political party or an agency, but to the actual unification and protection of an entire country. It's heavy shit, but I'm tough; I've got this.

Look, I'm not out to get her, Bella Cullen. I couldn't care less that she's getting on with her life and married to the man of her dreams. Fuck, I don't even care that she's scared enough of me and what we know to feel the need to hide. But fuck if I'm not annoyed that it's so easy for her.

Jake raped and abused her for a decade and a half; she moves on and falls in love.

Royce rapes me once, abuses me a few more times; I'm a wash-up, broken-down woman. I think that's what I am, anyway. It's been so long since I felt anything more than my fingers at work down there. I'm not entirely sure I remember how to be a woman. I'm a machine, running on water and energy and a burning need to protect myself while destroying whomever the republic deems their enemy ... or mine.

It doesn't matter. Not much does, because my job isn't some nine-to-five cubical fest. I don't operate with the same set of rules as everyone else, and I'm packing my gear for a nice little stay up in the forest of Washington State.

Recon, make sure our secret is still a secret, and spend a few weeks or months getting waterlogged enough to force that Squid out of my head.

XxxxxxxX

A/N:

A little more from Rose. I'm thinking two or three updates tonight.


	10. And They All Fall Down

And They All Fall Down

Rescue and exfiltration isn't easy. Sometimes it's the dead of night and the moon is hiding its face, torn apart by the idea of more bloodshed on its earth-love. And sometimes it's in broad daylight when the enemy can see you a mile away and you still have to fucking go in because life and death are fickle friends.

The CIA has a man behind enemy lines in Lebanon. I don't know his story or how he got there, but I do know that it's my job to get him out. What the Navy or the Commander in Chief says, I do. Even with gunfire raining down on us like fucking confetti at Mardi Gras.

But we get him out.

And he's a little worse for wear: a bullet in the knee cap, infected and definitely causing a shitload of pain, and another imbedded in his shoulder. It looks like they purposefully made the shot shallow enough that they could push it in deeper with their fingers and inflict more pain.

I hate it. Thank the good Lord above that I fight for a country where this ... torture is against the law. Our very constitution says we won't do things like this, not even to the kind of people who treat our own citizens this way. The rest of the world is goddamn lucky the good ol' U. S. of A. is on this earth.

Our medic, Doc Embry, is digging those bullet fragments out of the dude, but he doesn't make a peep. They train 'em well, the CIA ... but the look on the doc's face says that this guy isn't going to make it. The infection in his leg has slipped into his bloodstream, and, well, it is what it is.

I take off my helmet and scratch my short hair. Of all the things I can say and do, this is the one I'm really shitty at. I don't know how to handle people in their final moments. I was like that with gran, then mom, and now this stranger who is dying for our country.

"Hey, man," I start, probably sounding as much like an idiot as I feel. "Tell me about home." I read once that the best way to distract someone in pain is to take them to their happy place.

"Home sucks," he groans.

Crash and burn. Okay then "Well, how about your girl? You have a girl, right?" I'm flying blind with this whole comfort thing, and it's not easy.

"She's not mine. Doesn't want a guy."

"Ah," I say, trying to understand. "Lesbian."

The poor guy is laughing so hard, he's coughing and making the blood flow quicker from his wounds. "Um, no. Definitely not. I've saw her masturbating in her tent one night on a mission in Rwanda. It wasn't a girl's name she was moaning. She definitely likes men. Tantrum is all woman."

The name catches my attention like being electrocuted. I know that weird ass name, and the sexy as hell chick it belongs to. "Tantrum?" I feign polite curiosity when I'm really fucking want to know.

He lets out another laugh, but the doc warns him to stop. One more might do him in. "Yeah. Rosalie. She's my Tantrum. Blonde goddess, man. What a woman. I just wish..."

What a woman indeed. And CIA? Fuck. That wasn't a coincident that she was in Forks that night. And I'm dying to hear more. "What's her last..."

But he's flatlined and gone before I can find out more.

xxxxxxxx

A/N:

Em is so close to finding shit out. OH MY GOSH.


	11. Blasé, Motherfucker

Blasé, Motherfucker

I've grown indifferent to the basic fears of life: guns, blood, pain, death, loneliness. But fear, when appropriately placed, is healthy. It's evolutionary in its basic makeup; designed to keep the creatures of earth submissive enough to acknowledge threats and strive for survival.

And I'm not out to kill Bella. On the contrary, I only want to ensure she keeps the healthy fear of the gravity of what she's done to keep her mouth shut. So far, so good. But when I told her she cannot tell a soul, I meant her Edward-dearest as well. If she follows the rules, she stays safe. This is how it will be. Always.

I don't usually operate the way I did with her. Never, actually. The closest I've been to someone in the line of fire or on a mission is with Quill, and that's because he's my highly trained and well groomed partner. Involving a civilian can become very messy business, as I'm discovering.

I work my way up to Washington, being as discreet as possible, and if there's a master of discretion, it's me. I'm getting used to this feeling of wilderness; it's actually relieving and invigorating. It's oftentimes just me and the pines and the creek. Solitude is mine.

Until it's not.

I hear the snap of a branch under a heavy boot before the rest of the forest recognizes the disturbance. Your average, everyday hunter isn't so quiet, so whoever is out there is looking for something specific, and my instincts tell me it's me.

My glock is in my hand and a bullet in the chamber, within a split second, and I'm up against a giant pine: poised, ready.

"Rosalie?" I hear my name whispered through the willows and needled evergreens. Who the shit knows my name? Whoever it is, they're getting closer ... too close.

With the distance of their footsteps and the echo of their voice, they're about twenty yards back. I'll allow five more before I take them out. Healthy fears.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

My gun is trained on the forehead of Major McCarty, whose hands are up and eyes don't look nearly as startled as they should. Lack of healthy fear. Goddamn Squid.

I don't lower my weapon as I speak. "What are you doing here?"

He lowers his hands fractionally, and I watch to ensure they don't so much so twitch toward his own sidearm. They don't. They better fucking not.

"Paul Grady's handler told me how to find you," he says finally.

Paul Grady. Quill. "Why did he send you, and what do you want, Major?"

"Rosalie," he begins, hesitating as his pulse hammers in his neck. This isn't good. All the signs of worry and panic are there in his body. Not fear, something worse. News. My grip goes lax just slightly, because I can feel the weight of something terrible coming.

He steps closer, closer and closer until I can feel his breath. "Grady is dead."

A multitude of emotions flash through my mind. The way he helped me when I was getting back in the field, the dozens of missions we went on, the dictators and coup leaders we assassinated, the way he looked at me that night in Rwanda when I masturbated for him - he didn't touch, just watched. We were special, he and I, and his death is a great loss to this country ... to me.

But I will not show emotion. Not to Emmett. It's a danger to care too much, and it's a bigger danger to let it show.

"Okay then." My voice doesn't even sound like my own. I sound heartless and wicked. And the voice he hears does what it's intended.

"It's ok to care, Rose."

I don't want him calling me anything familiar or personal.

"Is that all, Major?"

He stares and stares until I want to cave and turn around. But he does first. "Yeah, that's all."

xxxxxxx

A/N:

Maybe she's a little human.


	12. Pine Boxes and Dirt, Motherfucker

A/N: Bella's POV ends in "Chic," Rosalie's ends in "Motherfucker," Em and Eddie's don't have anything special except their initials. Hope that clears up any confusion.

I love the reviews and the love. Please accept all the hugs and kisses and squishy hugs I have for you.

Pine Boxes and Dirt, Motherfucker

I don't attend Quill's funeral. It breaks my heart because he's been there for me when I've been a broken body in his arms, and I cannot be there for him when his goes into the ground. I can picture his sister accepting a folded up flag and weeping over the loss of a brother she never really knew.

This is one of the worst parts of the profession we chose—the one that chose us: No one will know who we really are until we get thrown into a pine box and into the dirt. Silent, ghost warriors.

It's the apparition of him and the continual battle and loss which drives me to the river. I need to bathe, and this is the time. Maybe the icy water will cleanse the bitterness in my soul. Yeah, I doubt it, too.

There's a good, still, deep spot a few hundred yards from camp, and the sun—usually hiding from the Washington sky—is making a rare appearance. I kick off my boots and unstrap the holster from my thigh to set my gun carefully on the bank for easy access in case it's needed. The rest of my clothes join me in the water; they need washed as much as I do. Piece by piece, I step out of my clothing and scrub out some of the dirt for reunion with the earth.

When I dip my head beneath the surface, I'm immersed and reborn; clean. A strangled gasp draws my head to the bank and the man standing there, watching a trail of water slip down my neck and over the curve of my breast and back into the river.

I should turn away; I should demand Emmett leave; I should swim to my glock and shoot the motherfucker for looking at me with such want it makes my insides shake and melt and want him right back. I should do any or all of these things.

But I don't.

I can't because I don't even have a moment to do any of them. He's in the water, in front of me, hands grasping first my neck to pull my mouth close to his, then slipping down over me and down and down and down, until palm and fingers have me.

He's the first man to touch me since Royce.

I'm shaking in his hand and crying out against his mouth far too soon, and much too violently. My body betrays the weakness of my bricks and mortar.

"I don't know your story, Rose. I don't know why you need the solitude of the wilderness, or why you want to be left alone, but I do know it's okay to feel. Feel this," he says, pushing his fingers deeper into me as my legs tremble. "Feel this whenever you need it. I'll be around."

His withdrawal from my body and the water is felt in ripples of emptiness as he sloshes away in soaked shorts and disappears into the woods.

I lay back and let the water hold me up, floating and staring at the sky as clouds roll in with my waring emotions. I've no strength left in me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

A/N:

I absolutely am in love with Emmett. How about you?


	13. A Burning Thing

A Burning Thing

E.M.

I can handle a thousand bogies aiming at my head, wanting me dead, but I cannot—will not—stand for anymore of the secret shit that's going on in her head. She may have not meant to break my skin and burrow in me, but she did. She did and won't get out, so now I have to handle it. This means handling her.

A month slips by, and another and another—many—without seeing or hearing from her, and when I can stand no more and decide to check on her, she's moved camp. I can't tell how long it's been, because the ashes of the campfire are cold and buried in the earth.

I go on missions and rescue people who need saving, but I can't save her. Not when she's doing this to herself.

But somehow I always find myself back in Washington, here for my friend and his wife and family; here for the woman who certainly doesn't need me. I think I'm starting to need her a little bit. A lot bit, really.

I asked a friend at the Pentagon to do a little snooping into Rosalie for me. He owed me ten-thousand bucks from the last Super Bowl, so him putting his job on the line to get me some Top Secret info on her will make us even … I guess. I'd like to think I'm getting the better end of this deal: information is priceless.

But then I get it.

A manila envelope with a single USB file. All the information of her life reduced to something smaller than the fingers I fucked her with.

Information I wanted; information I got.

She's top security clearance. Like … _the_ top. Like, she'll find out I was looking into her. I'm royally screwed.

I'm about to power-down, smash and burn my computer and the files when something catches my eye:

_Fiancé: Royce King, deceased._

I know that name and everything it means. I know that Bella's first husband was a dirty bastard of a man, and fucked King while beating his wife. I know that King murdered Black and then committed suicide.

I know that Rosalie's being here in Forks is way too fucking convenient for a coincidence. Shit. Bella!

Fuck monkeys, I've got to deal with this.

xxxxxxxxxxx

A/N:

Oh fuck-a-duck.


	14. How to Deal, Motherfucker

A/N: Enjoy.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

How to Deal, Motherfucker

I put the phone down and close my eyes in frustration. Why'd he have to go there?

I know who he is, and now he knows me. He knows what and who I'm here for, and it's only a matter of time before one of us destroys the other. I intend to be be the survivor. I must survive. I've been too far to fall into oblivion here.

It's time to bait the trap, and see what kind of trophy I can catch—not that I'd mount his head. I doubt I'd find a taxidermist who'd be down for that.

I go into town, making a quick stop at a boutique on Main Street for something reasonably more feminine than the boots and jeans I'm sporting. Maybe Emmett doesn't give a shit about those kinds of things, but I need him off his game and falling into mine. Forty-five minutes and a black dress and red heels later, I'm walking to where I know he'll be.

I've been around here enough to know exactly where he goes, what he does, and even what time he grabs the paper for his morning shit. He's predictable, and while I'm probably too critical of him—I mean, he's a Squid, not CIA—I can't help but feel like he should take better care to not be so goddamn obvious. Jesus. I hope he's not like this in the field. He's bound to get himself blown to bits.

See. I fucking care too much. He's supposed to be a pawn, and here I am, queening him like a fucking chess piece. I might have made a mistake in allowing him as close as I did, but the realization is too little, too late; unstoppable.

There isn't any fixing this; there's only … Well, I'll deal with that if I have to.

I'm not a bad person, I swear. I've only ever murdered one person, and he deserved it. I appointed myself judge, jury, and executioner in Royce's trial by bullet. Everyone else—the assassinations, the sabotage—those were ordered strikes. They don't count: Unofficial rules of governments.

And I don't want to add to the murder ticker by having to take out someone that really doesn't deserve it. Hell, I don't want to ever have to add to it again. This is why I wish people would mind their own goddamn business and not ask for my file or maybe not talk to Katie Couric about doing a fucking interview about their shithole ex-husband.

Why do I have to think for the masses? Really, it's exhausting.

When I open the door of the bar, I become someone else. This is what I'm good at. Make believe and lies have filled my life since I was eighteen—three years after Dad died in Turkey, and the government had been my pseudo parent before taking me under its wing and turning me into a killing machine. Their killing machine. A weapon, secretly perfect in the most unexpected ways.

Emmett, per his nightly routine when he's in town, is playing pool and drinking a Guinness at the last of three pool tables. His muscles flex in that shirt the way my stomach is rippling at the distant memory of his touch from all those months ago. I wanted him as much then as I do now, and he knew just what I needed, even if I didn't.

He calls his shot, and I can hear him from across the bar—that loud, thunderous, and strangely obnoxious but perfect bass.

"Walker. Black Label. Neat," I tell the bartender as I slap a twenty down, not taking my eyes off Emmett as he whoops and laughs boisterously as he lands his shot. The burn of whiskey is appropriate for tonight. It burns me like I burn for him; the way I'll burn him up if I must.

Whiskey, ingested. Emmett in my crosshairs. Here we go.

xxxxxxxx

A/N: It's about to go down, folks. Hold onto your panties.


	15. Red Lips and Lies

Red Lips and Lies

E.M.

The short, military grade hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as she enters the room. Everything in me knows she's here for me. Her eyes feed on my breath and the gulps of beer descending my throat; they eat me alive. It's the most delicious evil I've ever felt: to be preyed upon by a lioness.

See, for as much as she's trained, so am I. Perhaps in different capacities, but we both know how to handle ourselves. I really hope she'll be reasoned with, because, damn it to hell, I'd hate to have to kill her. That's the last thing I want. Fuck. I'm falling hard for this girl. Woman! Sorry. Definitely all woman.

We'd be so good together. She's the corned beef to my hash; the Bailey's to my car bomb; the emerald to my isle. Ok, enough Irish stereotyping - you get the picture. She was made for me. The Colt to my .45 ... Shit. I really hope she doesn't want to do this like that. There's no way I'll be able to shoot her.

Hell, the alternative though - her trying to claw out my eyeballs and scratch out my throat - turns me on a little. A lot.

And the way she's standing there with the whiskey dripping from her lips, I'm surprised I sink the shot I take. I'm talking to people around me, making noise from somewhere in my chest while my mind is only on her.

Her and that black dress, walking my way.

"Major," she greets. Fine. Let's play.

"Agent."

Her eyes cloud just enough to make me question the security of my manhood before I see them clearing as the twinkle of evil glee returns. Perfect evil. Mine. If she didn't want to kill my sorry ass, anyway.

"Maybe we should talk somewhere else?" She asks. "A little ... quieter."

Like maybe an empty, unmarked grave just waiting for a certain Navy SEAL to find his final resting place. Um ... No. We'll do this here. Even if we break this bar in a million pieces, I'm not moving.

So why then is my head nodding and my voice saying, "Why not? Let's go." Why am I leading her out the bar and down the street and into the wooded area where my motel room is nestled? And why the fuck am I getting a hardon just thinking of the way her heels are clicking on the rocks behind me?

Shit. I'm fucked.

xxxxxxx

A/N: all apologies for the delay. It's been ... well, it's been a hell of a week.

Thank you so much to the FicSisters for the love they've shown The Speciation of Me, Heroin Chic, and now Code Name: Tantrum. They featured my fun tales on their blog the past couple of weeks, and I'm feeling so blessed by the love!

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I've also been writing something pretty exciting (to me, anyway - lol) for the Maybe HEA Angst Contest! Cannot wait!

Happiest Friday. Shabbat Shalom. I'm off to wine it up and maybe post another one tonight.

You'll love the next one. Believe me.

...ESPECIALLY you, GEE!


	16. Spiky Heels to the Heart

A/N: Oh shit…

xxxxxxxx

Spiky Heels to the Heart

E.M.

The noise of a bullet entering the chamber of a gun stills me in my place as soon as I close the motel room door. What a bummer. It's going to be a big disappointment when I have to bust up her beautiful face.

"So this is how it happens?" I ask, dropping my keys to the desk and slowly removing my watch. I really don't want to get messy, and apparently neither does she as I hear her shoes thud to the carpet when she kicks them off.

The gun is on me when I turn back toward her. My brain is going haywire with emotions and ideas: how to beat her, how this is going to end, how goddamn turned on I am. And ain't that the truth.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" I watch her lips move as the words come out, and I suddenly regret every bit of the looking I did—the looking at her file, the looking at her face, the looking as I fall all over myself for this woman.

"A lot more questions than answers," I respond. But there's no point in lying about it now. "You have an interesting connection to a girl I know."

"So I do."

She doesn't give anything. Not a hint, not an expression; not a single indication of how this will go.

"And you aren't here by accident." This is a statement—pure and final—and not a question.

Her lips tilt up in a sad, twisted grin as she shakes her head. "No."

xxxxxxx

A/N: Putting the final touches on the next chapter for posting in a little bit.

Light 'er up.


	17. Don't Fuck with Me, Motherfucker

A/N: Warning: This chapter contains guns. Fuck, the whole story contains guns. But if you have gun issues, then please read with caution. That's all. Carry on…

xxxxxxxx

Don't Fuck with Me, Motherfucker

"No." I don't want to play games with him, and I don't want to lie. Not to him. "No, it's not an accident that I'm here."

"Didn't figure it was once I read about your fiancé," he says.

"Some relationships end poorly," I say. "Why don't we take a little walk toward the Cullen place and see what we can find."

"Why are you after her?" he asks. He sure is a talker for someone in a life threatening situation. Does he talk the Taliban to death. I mean, come on. Jesus H. Christ in a bucket. And Emmett thinks he knows more than he does. I'm not after her, I'm only here to make sure she keeps her trap shut.

"After her? How'd you figure that? And how much did you learn about me?" I hope he doesn't know how screwed up I am from the shithole I almost married. Fuck, he better answer me the way I expect, or this gun is going to find its way to hurt him. Badly. And that's the last thing I want. I actually want him alive and well and getting on with his life, but there's a few things I need to take care of before he can get to that getting on part. "Emmett. Jesus fucking Christ," I sigh. "I swear to God…"

"You swear to God _what_, Rose?" he snarls. "What the hell are you going to do?" Each word is an advance in my direction. And this is him. He's doesn't know when to stop. He pushes and pushes until all my buttons are lit up like the Fourth of July. Goddamn it.

"Don't make me do it, Major." I pull back the hammer on the gun. He's come so close, the barrel is against his chest.

I blink, and it's a moment lost. He grabs my arm and the gun falls and skids across the floor as I'm slammed against the wall, my cheek scraping on the wood with his elbow pressed between my shoulders. But I'm not that fucking easy to take out.

My ankles are mobile, and I hook one around his calf and send him tumbling backward. And we're both clawing and tripping and falling for the gun. His elbow to my jaw, my nails drawing blood from his scalp, and the struggle won't end until one of us is dead.

And then he has it pointed at my head. I sure as fuck didn't think it would be me on the floor when this was over. My chest is heaving for breath and he pants as well, both of us fighting now only for the oxygen in the room.

His hands don't shake as he aims the gun at me. I don't expect they would. He's a badass who's about to end me. I'll accept my fate because this is how the game is played; the pine box is waiting for me.

But then he opens his goddamn mouth…and laughs.

"I think I'm fucking in love with you, Rose."

I blink, I think. Wait, _what_?

"Fuck. I know I am." His eyes are jumping around my face. "Why does it have to be this way?"

My stomach drops—that pitted, empty cocoon feeling when there's a good thing in front of you but you know it's not going to see the light of day because you won't let it. We're a good match. He makes me tick. But I just…I can't. It's not in the cards for people like me. I swallow hard and steel my jaw. "Yeah, well right back at you, dipshit. I could've fallen for you—loved. Maybe."

"No!" he yells, pointing the gun in the air and then back to me when I move a fraction of an inch, flinching at the noise. "_Love_. As in the present tense. This is such a joke. What the hell? How is it even possible to be _this_ fucked up?" He's a lunatic with his hands pulling at hair that's so short it can't be grasped.

No. He hasn't seen fucked up yet. "You wanna shoot me after you unload your conscience. Totally. Go for it."

"Stand up," he orders. Whatever. I won't move without a good reason. He can shoot me on the floor or against the wall or in the bathtub or out in the trees. It doesn't really make much of a difference now, but I'm not helping.

"Say it right, dammit."

I grind my teeth, because I really just want to refuse the fucker, but I promised no lies with him. "Fuck you, Emmett. Fuck you. Fuck the Cullens. Fuck this whole fucking world."

He sits on the edge of the bed, the anger and fullness of his emotions taking their toll. "Just. Say. It!"

"I hate you!" And I do in that moment. I hate him more than anything. And I don't, all at the same time. "I fucking hate you!"

I push myself up, watching him as he watches my legs where the dress rides up as I stand. He keeps the gun trained on me as I stalk toward him. I want him so much I hate him…and I want him more than anything.

Emmett retreats further onto the bed, as I climb over him. "Say it," he repeats.

I grasp his dog tags in my fist and pull him up to my eye level. "Stupid, goddamn, motherfucker." I'm angry and stupidly turned on. But I'm in control, and as long as I'm in the driver's seat, I'm safe. "I want you, shithead. Okay? That's all you'll get. No fancyass words, but just th—"

His lips are covering mine and my hands hesitate only a moment before they scramble to drop his tags and release him from his pants. Then I'm over him, his cock pressing into me and filling all the wetness and warmth within me with every bit of him. His hands slide up my thighs and grip my hips…or they would if he put the fucking gun down. The cold metal touches my overheated skin and goosebumps filled with fear and excitement break out along the trail.

"You're mine," he says. "You got it?"

I nod because there's nothing in my throat or in my lungs—no words to breathe. I haven't felt so much in so very long.

He pushes up into me as he drops the clip to the bed and empties the chamber, tossing the bullet across the room. And the barrel is back, empty and unloaded, and pressing against my clit without mercy. It's everything. He's everything. Fucking muscles and perfection bundled together to mess with my mind.

I come with a cry of absolute bliss; I come with a gun against my pussy; I come all around him while the bed shakes and squeaks from the effort to stay upright through the violence. There's nothing sweet or easy about this moment. It's everything we are—savage, damaged, scarred, and purely fucking perfect.

And I'll be gone as soon as we're done.

xxxxxxx

A/N: :D


	18. Wallflower, Motherfucker

Wallflower, Motherfucker

What kind of man cares for a woman like this, with my back against the wall and a hand on my neck? Because that's me; that's where I am. "A rock and a hard place" don't do a bit of justice to the narrative of my situation. And how can someone love you without knowing you? He can't love anything about me because he knows nothing about me beyond a file filled with words. That's not the me I am inside; not the me who dreams of beaches and sandy dunes and freedom.

I live as two people - dueling realms of reality - and Emmett wants to play with the fire inside me. He's bound to get burnt, and I, hurt.

The strings of a cello fill my ears as I push my tired legs further and harder on my morning run. The foggy air of San Francisco provides a camouflage and shield from the outside world. I couldn't stay there. Not in that place where he invaded my territory and took ground. I retreated because the battle was a lost. I'm close enough to be up there within a handful of hours if I must, but this distance is good. Needed.

One perk of being off the grid - a wallflower agent - is blending into the oblivion of civilians and the mediocrity which fills their lives. You don't see me, you don't hear me; I'm the very fog itself, rolling in and out as I please.

I pause at another of the many hilly streets making up this beautiful city, catching my breath and filling my lungs to capacity. And as much as I love this bay air, I miss breathing that same kind he breathes up in Washington.

When I gather the oxygen my muscles cry for, I summit the hill ... and stop dead. Naval vessels are sailing into the harbor. Like gigantic, Nimitz and American and Wasp class ships. My eyes flash to a sign on a lamppost overhead. Fleet Week. And the parade of ships has begun; the sailors will soon follow.

"Right here, Sugarlips."

I close my eyes and trample my instinct to reach for the knife I've tucked away in my sock. Fucking Squid.

xxxxxx

A/N:

Thanks for your patience and for the love on Facebook. I've had a very awful, week-long migraine. Apologies.

Rose has definitely met her match. And I fucking LOVE Em. He's a blast.

More angst to come. We aren't done with the shit/fan/splattering-on-the-ceiling yet. Steel yourselves.

Hey, I just wanted to say thank you for the love of Heroin Chic. I think I finished it so early on in April that TwiFanFictionRecs forgot about it when they put together the list to vote on for the top ten of April. But thank you to those who've shown support with a word about its completion. I appreciate it so much.


	19. Steady As She Goes

Steady As She Goes

E.M.

I watched. I waited. And waited. And waited.

She didn't come around for so long, I was beginning to think she'd been sent out on a mission and got herself killed. But I knew that wasn't true, because I felt her out there somewhere.

When my connection delivers on the fuckton of money I pay, and gets me word that she's been spotted in San Francisco, I head straight for the bay. The perfection of Fleet Week coinciding with my arrival couldn't be planned better if I tried.

I spend a day tracking her; learning where she goes and what she does. For being in the CIA, she sure doesn't mix up her routine enough. Or maybe she keeps a routine because she knows I'll be looking for her. I imagine it's the latter. I hope - for her sake and mine.

She's running up a steep San Fran street, absorbed in the press of her muscles, and I'm a little mesmerized as well. Rose is Athena, I swear. And then she's in front of me, but doesn't see me yet. I know she's putting pieces together in her pretty little head.

"Right here, Sugarlips," I call out to her. Her fingers twitch to react - to kill, be she doesn't.

"I left to get away from you," she says, pointing her nose to the air haughtily. "I don't appreciate your constant appearance in my life."

Her words sting, but I laugh anyway. Humor is a cooling balm. "I think we both know that's not true, Rose."

"Don't tell me what is and isn't true, Squid."

"Squid?" I laugh again. "SEALs fucking hate that name. But I bet you knew that already."

She raises an eyebrow but doesn't respond.

"You know what I don't appreciate?" I ask. "You taking off after I rock your world."

Her face flames red, the desired effect taking hold. "Rocked my world? You're insane!"

"Not insane, Rose," I counter. "Sure of myself."

She's in my face with her sweat splashing on my shirt as she shakes her head in violent frustration. "Don't flatter yourself. It was ... average."

I know she's lying. I see it in everything she is. "I don't do average, Tantrum."

Eyes slight with flames, dangerous and purely wicked, she lunges for me. But not to kill this time. Her lips are pressing against mine, pushing into my mouth and teeth biting with enough force to draw blood when I offer my tongue.

"Fucking hell!" I cry, pushing her away. Her lips are stained with my blood and her face is wild with abandon. And it's fucking hot.

I have her there, in an alley between two old brick buildings, and again later in her bed. And when we fall asleep in exhaustion, I keep an arm tightly around her. She isn't getting away this time.

xxxx

A/N:thanks for your patience. ❤️


	20. Attempting at Life, Motherfucker

A/N: Catching up where Heroin Chic left off, when her interview was playing, and the sneak peek of CN:T when Rose sees the interview. Here we go!

xxxxxxxx

Attempting at Life, Motherfucker

I'm possessed. I think.

How else can I expound upon this unexplainable urge to care for a man as fucking obnoxious as Major Emmett McCarty?

He's every kind of distracting, and way too many levels of infuriating to be true. But fuck, I think I'm in love.

We're like the undone pieces of an M-16, he and I; just getting cleaned up so we can be put back together and kill some motherfuckers. We're a deadly duo—danger and fear-inducing dominance is bred in us—but together, we suddenly fit. Never thought that would happen, not to me, especially not after Royce.

Emmett and I fight like demons; we fuck like gods; we love like the imperfect and wonderfully disastrous humans we are.

Somewhere in the middle of late night and early morning and mid-day romping, he finds time to romance me. Like, legitimately makes me feel like falling in love is okay and won't be my undoing. Or that maybe the idea of being undone is all right. That's a scary thought.

Of course, he has his missions and I still have mine. But I also find myself keep less and less of an eye on Bella Cullen. Somehow, knowing that my squid is close to them makes it okay to back off a little. I hope I don't come to regret this decision.

Em has been speaking to Edward Cullen, and gently easing my being a part of his life into the conversations. Edward seems like a decent guy, so I'm glad that Bella got him, and I can actually see this all working out positively…

…until she's suddenly on my television screen while Em and I are munching on sushi takeout and sipping saki. Wasabi burns my throat as I swallow a chunk of it in sudden gasping disbelief of this moron. What the royal fuck was she thinking? A Katie Couric interview! What the fuck. Ten years should be enough time to get the fuck over it. Not that I am, necessarily, but I'm getting there…sort of.

I don't care what Em says, or how strong he thinks he is as he wraps his arms around me right now—both comforting and locking me into place to contemplate my options before reacting.

Give her an inch; she takes a fucking million miles. Not fucking cool.

If my name comes into this, she's toast.

xxxxxx

A/N: Get ready for a showdown.

((Note: HC ended in 2004, and the interview was in 2014 - Rosalie heard about/saw the interview in 2014, but CN:T starts there and then jumps backward to 2011, when she really starts to keep tabs on Bella [pre-interview]. Don't hate me if that's confusing. Drabble, people! LOL))


	21. Idiots, Motherfucker

A/N: Drabble = easiest way to confuse oneself and one's readership. SORRY! So the interview in HC was in 2014. Yes, CN:T started with Rose mentioning the interview, THEN it jumped back to 2011. It's been leading back up to all of this because the interview is the catalyst for the shit hitting the fan.

Confused or not, stick with me.

-Yours and also a little confused, Q

xxxxxx

Idiots, Motherfucker

"I don't give a flying fuck, Squid," I call from the closet as I throw sweats and hoodies into my duffle. "I have to talk to her. She's a fucking idiot."

"Rosie," Em sighs from our bed, rubbing his temples in frustration and distress. "Going there isn't going to do anything but make it worse."

"No!" I yell. He hates it when I yell, but I'm too fucking tired of this shit to keep calm. "She needs to see how serious I am when I tell her what a motherfucking dipshit she is for drawing attention to this."

"What's the big deal? I've never understood your obsession with her."

Okay, if I wasn't pissed off two minutes ago, I'm fucking raging now. "Yeah, because you don't know shit about it, so don't assume obsession is what this is." Insulting asshole.

"Enlighten me then, Tantrum."

"I could, but then I'd have to kill you." I'm not even joking, and I'm pretty sure he knows it. He needs to remember who I am and what I'm capable of. "Neither of us really wants that. So drop it, yeah?"

Then he begins a guessing game, like the big dope he so often is.

"You two were smugglers? Gang members? Involved in a conspiracy to kill the queen?" When I stop packing long enough to toss a glare at him, he goes silent and his smile fades. "You killed them."

He knows. Maybe he's always known. "Em…"

He stands, holding up his hands and walking away from me; out the door and down the sidewalk below the apartment.

I don't have the time or patience to deal with him. Not when a certain dumbass woman thinks it's cool to air some dirty laundry that's been buried under the bed for the past decade.

I'm driving toward Forks before dawn with a gun on my hip and a bottle of Jack in the passenger seat where Major McCarty should be.

xxxxxxx

A/N: Thank you all for your patience. You rock.

PS. When reading for free, don't be an asshole. Thanks.


	22. White Knight, or Maybe Not

White Knight, or Maybe Not

E.M.

So Rose killed off the two asshats who fucked her and Bella's lives up. I'm okay with this news. Why she's going to Bella? Not so okay with this.

She needs to fucking leave well enough alone. Who gives a flying fuck if Bella wants to shine some light on Jake's dark side? Let her. Only Rose feels threatened because she's attached.

If there's one thing I know is that Rose is and has been in survival mode since the moment she stepped onto The Farm at Camp Peary and into the offices at Langley. That girl—my girl—is ninety-eight percent concrete and two measly percent flesh and blood. But it's the flesh and blood I commune with. She's everything to me, and I'm sure as hell not letting this escalate any further.

Or maybe I am, because when I catch up with her outside the Cullen cabin in Forks, I have only a moment before a gunshot sounds.

_Pop!_

"Rose!" I hear myself screaming before she crumples to the pine needles and mossy forest floor.

Edward is running toward us, and everything moves in slow motion. There's blood. Lots of blood.

And Rose is white as a sheet.

I can't breathe, not if it means taking away some of the oxygen from the massive expanse of air which her body needs so vitally right now.

I just have to save her.

xxxxxxx

A/N: Thank you for your patience! Please check out my entry in the Maybe an HEA contest, Clearance, which is now on my page.


	23. Red Queens and Dead Things

A/N: Waves.

xxxxxx

Red Queens and Dead Things

I forgot what it's like to feel this way: like a pathetic lump of useless flesh in a world going to hell. Exactly seven minutes ago, my Rosie was alive and kicking and ready to put the fear of God into Bella Cullen; now she's passed out from pain, and her lifeblood is pouring over my shoes and soaking into the earth below.

When Edward reached us after Rose went down hard, I didn't scream, I didn't cry; I went into Major-mode as this forrest became a battlefield and my girl a soldier down. I gave orders and he followed them until we had her inside their cabin.

"Ah, shit. She's losing a lot of blood, Emmett," Bella says, stating the obvious like she didn't create the whole goddamn situation. "What are we supposed to do?"

Now I'm rocking back and forth like a helpless animal, crying for relief, crying to take on the agony she's in. I'm not a Major anymore—just a man, watching the love of his life bleed out from a wound so stupidly amateur that it couldn't have been more than luck and the wind which carried the bullet straight through the side of her neck.

"Emmett," Edward's voice echoes in my head. He's somewhere out there in the distance, beyond the function of my mind. "What's her blood type, Em?"

"I … I don't know, Ed. I …"

"How do you not know, Emmett? She read your goddamn file, and you didn't return the favor?"

"She … Man, her file was so top secret it cost me a shit-ton, and I didn't even manage to read it all because I saw King's name and flipped the fuck out. "

"So we can take a wild fucking guess, or we can let her bleed out and be done with it," Edward says.

I'm in his face with my hand around his neck before he blink. "We are not letting her die Cullen. I saved your ass in the desert, and seeing as your wife shot the love of my fucking life, I'm thinking it's only fair to put all our efforts into saving her."

"Do you know what she's done?" Edward demands, pushing with muscles just as strong as my own. "She's tracked my wife down, plotted and committed and assisted in dozens of murders… So excuse me if I'm a little fucking skeptical about saving her life."

"Guys!" Bella screams. "Stop it, guys! Stop! I'll give her blood."

"Bell…"

"I'm O negative. It's universal in the event of an emergency…"

"An emergency you created!" I want to finish what my Tantrum began, but I'm moving and going, and pushing past them—too busy seething and grabbing glass bottles to clean for the transfusion my girl is going to need.

The blood is thick and dark and pure as it travels from Bella's veins, to the Coke bottles, and into Rose. The surgeon arrives as the first drops of the stuff push into their new host.

In all the days I've been a warrior in this life, nothing has prepared me for the anxious waiting to see if the woman I love will pull through to the other side of a war of her own.

xxxxxxx


End file.
